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Ten Months Later ... duh!

Posted by: Jada on Monday, March 17, 2008 - 03:17 AM
Jada Rave Would you believe it's March of '08 and I haven't been here in forever? I do apologize ... blame it on the Writers Guild. They started rattling swords last summer saying they were going to strike and my bosses knew what that could mean -- they did strike 3 times in the 80s and the damage was terrible. They say the Los Angeles economy lost billions of dollars because 8,000-ish writers wanted 4 cents a showing more or something dumb like that.

So I have been working my tail off ever since the threats started -- which is good in that when they did go out the company I work for was okay. Bad in that my Journal didn't get finished. I'm not sure, truthfully, when I can go back to it as we've got a bunch of films in post and two shooting but I will try ... it's such fun to write down my life. :-)

So please forgive me ... all the readers and my poor publishing company, Rosa Romance, all of whom's authors have probably pulled a disappearing act just like I had to. Hey, the day job has to come first. That's what pays the rent, right?

Wish you all the best! Thank you for reading, Jada

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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, May 30, 2007 - 01:29 AM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

Do you believe we're half way through 2007? I don't. Where did the time go? I don't know but here's another scene from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars. Thanks for coming every Wednesday to read more.

Thanks for reading, Jada


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Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.
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The interview with Marseya was a little bit different. It was obvious that she totally trusted Andrea's ability to determine whether I could do the job or not.

What she wanted to know was how she and I and Andrea, of course, were going to work together; whether the personalities would mesh.

Her husband David didn't seem to enter into the picture. I guess I was to be primarily working for her but she didn't state that. I made a mental note to ask Andrea later if my assumption was correct. That's assuming I got the job.

Marseya seemed the most concerned about my ability to deal with the famous personalities in the film business since I grew up in Bumfuck, Nowhere.

"I know who they are," I said with a shrug. "I'm not culturally illiterate, I just don't give a shit. My nickname in high school was Jaded 'cause nothing much impresses me."

Marseya finally cracked a smile. "Okay ,Jaded, how about we take you on for a thirty day trial? Does that work for you?"

I guess being a smart ass is the right thing to do sometimes.

"That would be fabulous," I was honestly appreciative.

"Even if we don't suit each other, that gives me a roof over my head for long enough to get situated in your lovely town. But I promise to work my proverbial tush off for you."

"I expect nothing less," Marseya was so businesslike I wondered if she ever loosened up. This chick seriously needed a drink and a good *****. I wondered whether her husband could get it up at sixty-ish. It sure didn't look like it.

I plastered a grateful smile on my face as Marseya shot some instructions—or were they orders?—at Andrea.

"Take Jada back, make a deal with her, and get her settled in the other guest house. I'll see you both in the morning."




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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4TH. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, May 23, 2007 - 06:45 PM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

I hope everything's rocking in your world! I am, as usual, completely in-f-ing-sane. Fortunately, it looks like the main project I'm on'll get a green light. Yippeeeee! And here's another little piece of my life, now Baby (apologies to Janice Joplin and whomever wrote the song) -- Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars.

Please keep coming every Wednesday to read more.

Thanks for reading, Jada


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Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.
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An hour later, I knew this wasn't gonna be an easy job to get.

Have you ever been grilled by somebody's assistant? I felt like an American cheese sandwich; all melted inside of two pieces of Wonder bread with grill marks from the metal holder like you'd use over an open campfire to grill your dinner on the outside, burnt to a little bitty crisp in wire-wide lines.

But she was good. She knew what her bosses wanted and she wasn't willing to settle for introducing them to less.

She'd started the interview by sending Rita off to visit with her friend Paul in the mini-house next door and, in the same breath, asking me for my resume. And she was impressed when I actually had it, considering that I just stepped off the bus, although it was on a disk in my backpack. We popped it into her computer and printed it out.

Then she read it and started grilling me about everything I'd done for the lawyers I worked for and every other job I'd ever had—from the time I was cleaning horse stalls at age six for the farmer next door, to the pizza parlor after high school.

She wanted to know all my skills, from translating in both Mexican Spanish and Spain's version of Spanish, to shorthand, fast typing, what legal work I had done for that firm—in detail from the real estate deals to the assholes needing out o'jail—and my ability to handle people on the phone and in stress environments.

Hell, I was handling her alright in a stress environment, wasn't I? It must've been all the practice I had shoveling shit for that farmer!

As Rita had said, Andrea—Miss Jackson if you're nasty—wasn't thrilled that I didn't know my way around LA.

Not having a car didn't seemed to bother her at all, however, apparently they had a bunch of extra ones sitting around the house—excuse me, the mansion—that needed the exercise.

Oh boy, less than three hours in LA and I'm already becoming a cynic, aren't I?

I guess I passed muster when she said, "Whata you have cloths-wise stuffed in that backpack of yours that would look good in an interview?"

"Plain black skirt, just below the knees. Black baby doll, no smart ass sayings on it. Plain black flats. You want my hair up or down? And do you want makeup?"

"You're smart and you don't waste time. I like that. Hair up. No makeup, I don't think. You look like you clean up real pretty like, and although Marseya is not at all jealous of David, let's not ask for trouble."

"Yeah, let's not. ***** the boss's the last thing I need right now. Woops, pardon my language."

"It's Hollywood. Not the first time I've heard the word," Andrea was philosophic. "Just don't use it in business around here, or anywhere else in the Town come to think of it . . . especially if you're working for my bosses. A few shits are okay but no fucks. Now, let's get you cleaned up."

She laughed. And sent me off to her own bathroom to take a quick shower and get changed while she called Marseya to see what time it would be convenient for her to meet with me.





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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, MAY 30TH. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, May 16, 2007 - 10:05 PM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

I hope you are all well. Thanks for the great emails about my writing! That's so exciting. So here's another bit of my book Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars. Please keep coming every Wednesday to read more.

Thanks for reading, Jada


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Driving around a curve in their driveway, the house suddenly became visible smack in front of us.

House? Who was I kidding?

Floating on the other side of an expansive blue-green lawn was another spectacular Bel Air mansion. It was big. Big hell, it was huge. A solid shimmering square perched on the hilltop, with Los Angeles spread out below it as the most amazing backdrop. I'd never seen anything like it. Not even on television. Made of rectangular blocks set horizontal of a pale beige glimmering stone with ornate carved stone cornices.

I shook my dazed and seriously confused head. "I've seen museums smaller than that house," I muttered.

"Just wait 'til you see the paintings they've got or so I've heard tell. Never been in there myself."

"Just curious. Any idea how big it is?"

"Paul says it's something like forty-five thousand square feet—"

"What does anyone need that much space for? I'll get lost."

"No you won't. I'll get Paul to do you a color-coded map of the house."

"Remind me to buy you guys some colored markers," I offered only semi-sarcastically.

To the mansions' left, was a one-story building made out of the same materials. To the mansions' right, behind some eucalyptus trees but still visible were three matching mini-buildings. Rita pulled in to the right toward the smaller buildings and parked.

"These are the guesthouses. You know, for the hired help," she drawled it.

"You've got to be kidding me?"

"Just for the record, don't ever ask Paul about being a cop," Rita ignored my small-town girl astonishment.

"Good change of subject," I thought she was schooling me back to my early attitude. "Time for me to quit gawking like an idiot?"

"If you want the job. But I meant what I said about Paul. His career ended with his partner dying in his arms in the middle of the street."

"Oh shit. I'd ask you if he's all right, but that's really a stupid question."

"Yeah, it is. It wasn't his fault. And he killed the two mother-fuckers who shot his partner but he still feels responsible. He quit the force thinking he couldn't take being on the streets, which was a shame. He was a great cop."

"That's really sad. Seems to me LA lost two good guys that day. Does Paul like working here?"

"It keeps his mind busy, it's very different, and he needs that."

"You sound like you know him well."

"Yeah, I do. Ex-lover. One of my few. Great guy. There's not many of them that wind up being your friend, after-the-fact. He's that kind guy."





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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, MAY 23RD. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




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Woops ... sorry!

Posted by: Jada on Thursday, May 10, 2007 - 12:59 AM
Jada Rave Hi Everyone,

Sorry not to have posted today but it takes some time to get the piece all ready to put up and we've been dealing with the Griffith Park fire. I mean, I love LA ... really I do -- but I don't know about living in Fireywood.

Do you know, there's been 4 fires in the park since December ... over 1/4 of it is burnt? Breaks my heart thinking about all the wildlife who can't run fast enough to get away from the flames. I am a total animal lover and it's horrible. If I hear one more stupid news anchor say, "There's been no loss of life" I'm gonna go postal. Human-centric is what they are. Do they really think that a little animal burning to death doesn't hurt as much as a human? I just hate it!

And now we've got the whole summer and fall to do this fire alert thing?

I don't know if I can stand it. But anyway, I'll get the newest installment up next Wednesday, the 16th. Sorry, I'm just way too depressed and there's nothing I can do to help them. That's the worst ... feeling helpless when I know little creatures need help.

It sucks. Thanks for reading, Jada




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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, May 02, 2007 - 02:05 AM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

Here's another bit of my book Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars! Please keep coming every Wednesday to read more.

Thanks for reading, Jada


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Much faster than anyone could spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, we were in Rita's car heading west into the sunset on Sunset. I had no idea where we were going except that Rita said it was an interview for a job, which included living space.

She'd called a guy named Paul, who was an ex-cop now doing bodyguard duty, she told me. He was someone she'd worked with, someone she liked and trusted. He was working at this place too. And also living there. It sounded very weird to me. Did all their employees have to live with them? What sort of a job is that?

As we drove, Rita told me what she knew.

"Paul works for a couple of producers. David and Marseya Hersh." She rattled off a half a dozen movie titles. None of which I'd seen. That seemed to impress her.

"How old are they?" I asked.

"I think he's like maybe sixty-ish, and she's late thirties . . . second wife syndrome. They live up in old Bel Air."

"Like I should know where this is maybe?"

"You will shortly—that's where we're headed. One of the negatives, and one of the reasons they might not want to hire you for this job is that you don't know your way around LA. You have a drivers license?"

"Yeah. Been driving since I was twelve, you can do that where I come from as long as you don't drive past the local Sheriff and wave. Don't worry, I've got a great sense of direction. I never get lost, never get turned around, may not know where I am but always know what direction to go to get where I want to be. I'll learn LA in a flash."

"Just remember there are places in LA where you might think you can drive through to get where they want you to go, but you wouldn't be safe. Remind me to color-code a map for you."

"You're going to an awful lot of trouble for somebody you don't even know. Thank you."

There was a very long, much too long, dead silence. Suddenly, I knew I'd gone where no one should go with Rita . . . but I didn't know why. I was mortified. And heart-broken that I'd hurt this gal who was being so amazingly nice to me. I looked away . . . because I couldn't look at her pain.

With a sniffle she said, "You remind me of my little sister; smart, pretty, adventurous. It got her killed. I became a cop because I couldn't let that happen to anybody else's little sister," Rita explained softly.

"I'm so sorry—" I broke up.

"Don't," Rita interrupted my apology. "Please don't. It's too soon for me to talk about it. Let's just say one of these days, when you know your way around this town, you'll make sure it doesn't happen to somebody else who runs into you. Okay?"

"Absolutely okay," I breathed softly.

* * *

We swooped around a corner banking to the left and rolled down about a hundred feet, making a right turn at a red light through a large white block entryway with black wrought-iron trim. I'm thinking Gone With The Wind as we headed up one of the winding streets.

"Welcome to ritzy-ditzy posh old Bel Air. This place is amazing. Glad I'm not a cop out here," she changed to a less painful subject with a laugh.

"Why not? I'd think it would be nice and peaceful."

"Kinda depends. There're so many private security guards, the Bel Air Patrol, 'n armed and dangerous super-rich rap stars living up here, it's almost more dangerous than South Central. Sorta like the gunfight at the OK Corral waiting to happen. And as a cop, how can I tell in a hurry who's side I'm on?"

"That could get sticky. If you blow away some ass with a number one record, thinking he's a burglar, you're in deep shit."

"Yeah. At least on the streets, I can usually tell the good guys from the bad guys. The operative word being usually."

We kept winding around, driving past one mansion more beautiful than the other. In many places the plant hedges were so tall and thick I couldn't see anything but huge electric gates with security cameras on them and not a bit of a house. Forget Gone With The Wind. Now I'm beginning to think Alice In Wonderland.

Suddenly Rita slowed down, and made a right turn into a wide cobblestone driveway pulling up slowly to giant, very ornate leaf and flower pattern, black wrought iron gates backed by a solid metal background so no one could see through them.

Were these people privacy freaks or what? And not just the folks we're going to see, there's a whole damn neighborhood full of them! What am I getting myself into? I was thinking.

Rita swerved to the left where there was a box on a wrought iron post. She opened the door on the front of the box, reached in and pulled out a telephone.

I was a little mind-boggled to say the least. Rita was pushing a code on a keypad as though she did this sort of thing every day. Maybe she did. I don't know.

I could hear the telephone buzzing the numbers as she dialed and a gruff male voice answer, "Hello."

"Hey Paul, we're here. Buzz us in, will ya?"

Another buzz and the gates slowly began to part. So easily I fell down the hole into Wonderland, into temptation.







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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, MAY 9TH. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, April 25, 2007 - 07:07 PM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

I really appreciate you all comin' back! The plot thickens, I assure you. :-) Please keep coming every Wednesday to read more of my book.

Thanks for reading, Jada


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


I entered the building. No kinda grand entrance, just shuffled.

I was dressed in sweats (big mistake but how the hell did I know how hot it was gonna be?), 'n a tank with a way too big— bulky enough to hide my tits but thin enough not to cook in—fabric shirt buttoned over it. My hair's braided n' pinned on top my head, under a plain baseball cap, on right ways—no rap stylin' for me.

And not a drop of make up.

I looked like a twelve-year-old runaway whose boom box had been stolen. But that was better than looking like a hot chick on the Hollywood streets.

As I swung my pack to the chair, one of the cops looked up and smiled. Hefty gal, gun on her hip. Looked like she coulda been a cousin on my mom's side. I took a chance she wasn't gonna bite and smiled back.

I guess she thought I looked like a cousin too 'cause she greeted me in Spanish.

Being the well-mannered young lady that I am, I replied first in that language, then switched to English. It's America, after all. Speak English!

"Hi. I'm new to town. Any ideas on a safe but fairly cheap place I could rent?"

"Shit," she squinted as she took a closer look at me, "you're not a boy."

"Yeah, but I'm safer this way, right?"

"In this neighborhood, that's for sure. Lemme think. Most hotels around here are not for you, some pimp'd take one look and try to recruit you. Hotels that're safe? You'd need to go to Bev Hills and—"

"No can afford," I mangled my English with a smile.

She shook her head. "Yeah, I get that one. Well, there's lots of outlying communities that are much safer . . . look, I'm getting off now. Let me sign out while I try to figure some semi-close place for you to stay." She turned with a thoughtful frown on her face and went into the back. I sat down next to my pack and waited. Minutes later she came out from the corridor and walked up to me.

"Want some coffee?"

"Sounds good. And a semi-clean ladies room?"

A grin followed as she stuck her hand out. "I'm Rita Montoya."

"Jada Nichols."

"Nichols? I thought you were . . . ah, I guess I'm wrong, unless . . . marriage?"

"No marriage. Irish dad. Mom's family is Fernandez."

"Ah, that makes sense. And you're moving here because? Please forgive me, I'm not being nosey but if I know what you wanta do, figuring out where to point you'll be easier. LA's very segmented."

As we walked out of the Police Station and up the street to a donut shop (cops really do hang out in donut shops. I was so surprised), I gave Rita the two-minute version of my life. You know, hatched under a flat rock in the desert, grew up sorta, did the college thing and got the degrees but couldn't do much with them at home, moving to LA to have a life.

Rita laughed at that. "A life? In LA?"

"Well . . . more of a life than sitting on a cactus wondering how I got thorns in my ass. I've got a good work history—"

"Doin' what?"

"Translation mostly," I replied as I pointed to a devil's food chocolate doughnut. The girl behind the counter put it on a plate and handed it to me over the glass countertop. "I worked my way through college at a law firm, sometimes in paperwork translations—everything from contracts on real estate to drunk driving tickets—sometimes being sent to the courts or down to the police station to translate for my bosses' clients."

"Is that what you want to do in LA?"

"I don't care much what I do in LA, long as it's legal, and fun."

"That's all well and good," Rita huffed, "short-term. But what about long-term?"

I was thinking this chick has a bunch of little sisters. I smiled as I paid the bill for both our donuts. "I have no clue."

We plopped ourselves in an orange plastic booth. "Why on earth'd you take business and creative writing?" Rita asked as she munched down a glazed doughnut chased with hot black coffee.

"'Cause I love books. I love writing. I love hiding my head in a dream world. I think it has to do with having nothing but an imagination as a child. I have a great family, don't get me wrong. Terrific parents. Fabulous older brothers. But I'm the youngest and for a girl in a small desert town there just wasn't much of a life. So I made up my own in my head. I got the Masters just 'cause I wanted to learn more about how writing worked. I'm not planning on making a career out of it."

Rita suddenly got an arrested look in her chocolate-colored eyes. "But you don't mind using your knowledge of creative writing, along with your skill at translation?"

"Not at all. If you can think of a way to mesh the two I'd be thrilled."

There was a long stretch of silence, Rita staring over my right shoulder out the plate glass windows at the front of the shop so lost in thought her donut was forgotten. Suddenly, she looked back at me.

"What do you think of Hollywood? You want to be an actress? A model? Whata you think of celebrities?"

Odd sort of questions she was asking me, I thought. But I figured there was a method to her madness so I replied, "I don't know enough about Hollywood to give you an opinion . . . I've only been here about an hour. Don't want to act—I love books, not movies, not plays, so something like that's never interested me. Modeling would bore me to death—look this way, look that way, click click click. And I think celebrities are just as screwed up as the rest of us."

"Then why come to Hollywood?"

"Similar to the warm weather I'm used to, lotta people speak both languages I speak, and I figured I could find a good chili relleno if I was having a chili relleno attack. I could also afford the bus ticket to here and not to a lot of other places."

Rita laughed. "That's the best reason of all." She was looking speculative again.

I let this slightly sardonic expression show on my face because I just couldn't resist answering the qustion she didn't ask—

"If what you really wanta know is, will I go ga ga workin' for some Tabloid Queen who can't remember to put on her underwear before a big night out on the Town, the answer's no. And I learned a long time ago that the only useful autograph's on the bottom of a contract!"

Rita broke up completely. And that must have made up her mind for her.

"I've got an idea. Don't know if it'll work but I heard— Want me to make a call?"

I grinned.

"Anything’s better than sleeping on a street corner."

"That isn't gonna happen anytime soon even if this doesn't work. The last thing I need to find when I come in to work in the morning is your—"

"Cold, dead body in an alley?" I finished the sentence along with her, speaking in unison. And together we broke up laughing.

You can always tell someone is going to be a good friend when you share the same really sick sense of humor.





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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, MAY 2ND. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, April 18, 2007 - 03:25 PM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

This is getting so exciting. Thank you for loving my work and for all the great feedback you are sending my publisher! I think they love me now. (Only kidding!) Please keep coming every Wednesday to read more of my book.

Thanks for reading, Jada


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


A blast of hot air enveloped me when I exited the bus station.

It was a bright, sunny California day, the kind you think they only have on postcards. June in La La Land. Musta been hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Since I didn't have any eggs with me at the time, I couldn't tell you for sure, but it felt like it.

Ever flash-backed like you were in a video that you'd seen?

If it hadn't been for the blinding light, the cloudless turquoise sky enveloping the world, and the mind-numbing heat, there I was— Axl Rose in Welcome to the Jungle.

If you haven't seen it, he gets off a bus in LA suitcase in hand—dressed as a naïve newcomer to the city complete with what looks like a piece of straw that he's chewing on. He looks around lost, then a bank of TVs in a store window catch his attention. There he is suddenly on TV, in a straight jacket, watching himself in what looks like an electric chair, shaking his head . . . I guess at the condition of LA sidewalks. I don't know.

Dad told me they shot it on La Brea. Part of my "To Do for the Family Now that I'm in LA List" is to go take a pic of the location for posterity. Or my dad's posterior. Or what all he needs it for, I have no clue.

My dad's a heavy metal fan from way back. His idea of baby-sitting was to plop me and my brothers in front of MTV in the late eighties when they played the heavier stuff. There I was, at seven, banging my head with my dad and then mom'd come home, switch to country/tex mex. Am I schitzo or what?

Anyway . . . .

I'm traipsing along Hollywood Boulevard, watching the fascinatingly mixed crowd all around me, occasionally glancing down to see who all I was steppin' on.

Particularly happy to stomp on Andy Griffith, didn't care much at all about Carol Burnett's dull and dirty star—but I walked reverently around Will Rogers.

Yeah, daddy didn't have much influence. I'm a bit of a country girl. Little more rock n' roll. Gimme Shania Twain and Mutt Lange, or good 'ol Southern Rock, nothin' too twangie and nothing too metal like my dad. But I do confess, I'd rather drink my dad's Bushmills Irish Whiskey rather than good 'ol traditional Jack.

I'm kinda a mutt, I guess. So the mutt makes a fast left at Wilcox, with the light so I don't become a flat mutt, and head off toward the world famous Sunset Boulevard.

Not much exciting to see along the well-traveled route, even less exciting at the corner. And downright boring the rest of the way. Gotta tell you though, they've got long, long blocks in Hollywood—I felt like I walked miles. And in my own shoes too. :-) Hum, Hollywood looks just like most towns and I'm seriously disappointed 'cause I was hopin' for more.

Life's like that, isn't it?

You buy into the promo of the dream they're all trying to sell you and then . . . .

Then you get to the LAPD Station.

What dream?





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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, APRIL 25TH. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, April 11, 2007 - 03:41 AM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

Thank you so much for all the nice things you've said about my writing! I really appreciate that you're coming to read bits of my journals -- every Wednesday I get to post more for you to read until the book is ready for publication.

Free reads! How cool is that? :-)

Thanks for reading, Jada


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Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.
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Ever been to the corner of Hollywood and Cahuenga? Not the world's most glamorous bus stop. Trust me. Dirt and spit on the famous stars embedded in the sidewalk. Crack dealers cluttering up alleys littered with needles and used condoms. Graffiti's in Spanish. I mean, please people. It's America. Speak English.

Don't get me wrong, prejudiced I'm not— I speak both. Comes from having a dark Irish father and a drop-dead gorgeous Hispanic mom—both second generation Americans. No hyphenates in our family. We're proud to be Americans! Besides, what would I be? An Irish/Mexican-American with two Danish, a German, and one Italian drop-in on my dad's side and a touch of Asian in my mom's Latin bloodlines? Gimme a break.

I'm an American.

I've got dad's pale skin, his thick dark, naturally curly hair (only mine's so long it's to my waist) and his sapphire blue eyes. Not to mention his love of all things poetic.

From mom I inherited an almost too lush figure for my otherwise slender five foot four inch frame, romance novel lips, and a double-dose of passion.

Needless to say, I didn't fit in around my hometown. Even though I went and did the local college thing, graduating with a 3.7, I never could manage to look the part.

Now I've got a BA in Business, a Masters in Creative Writing, and tits out to here so no one cares about the first two attributes.

Life sucks and then your breasts get in the way.

Snarl. Worse yet, I have no interest in any career where those naturally inflated tits would be an asset. Don't wanta be an actress, can't sing worth shit, and dancing as top-heavy as I am would be a real pain—literally.

So why did I head for Hollywood? you're thinking.

Good question. Hoping for camouflage, I guess. If there's a whole bunch of bouncing boobie Playmate clones in a city—so many the men are tripping all over them no matter where they go—maybe someone with a penis will pay attention to my brains.

Or is that wishful thinking on my part? Small town girl shows her naïve beliefs?

Oh well, can't get any worse than it was at home. At least in Los Angeles I won't have known all the glassy-eyed, drooling middle-aged men since I was a baby. That's always creeped me out.

So let's go back to the bus stop at the corner of Hollywood and Cahuenga.

Being a person without a master plan that involved anything other than escaping Hicksville, USA, there I was, on the streets of lower Hollywood—well, not quite yet, I was still in the bus station—with no place to go and no way to get there.

Duh. You'd think I was a blond, wouldn't you?

No offense meant to you, blond readers. You know, someday someone's gonna explain to me why I can't say the N word, I can't scream anything that rhymes with kite at a person of Jewish descent, it's in bad taste to say someone's fat as a pig even when they are . . . but blond jokes are still acceptable.

That's prejudice too, right?

Right!

I guess no matter who you are there's someone in the world who hates what you are—usually for religious or envy reasons.

Me and my tits are another envy example. Guys deal with penis envy, I'm dealing with both sexes wanting my tits. Ugh.

Anyway me, with my tits leading the way, headed across the bus station to ask the man behind the counter where the local police station was.

Nice guy. Took my map and with his pen he drew me a blue ink path to follow.

Not far. About four blocks. One block over the aforementioned celebrity stars and three down a street called Wilcox, into the heart of Hollywood. So off I went.

I'm thinking if I wanted to find a safe place to camp for a night or two or more while I get my bearings—you know, get over the Stranger in a Strange Town thing—the cops are the ones to ask. The last thing they need is to find my cold, dead body in an alley tomorrow morning so they'll likely give me good advice.

That was the theory, anyway.




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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, APRIL 18TH. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

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Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars

Posted by: Jada on Wednesday, April 04, 2007 - 04:46 PM
Excerpts of my Journals Hi everyone,

As I promised, here's the beginning of my journals ... every Wednesday I get to post more for you to read until the book is ready for publication. What a hoot!

I do hope you enjoy my crazy life ... I sure do! :-) Thanks for reading, Jada


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Excerpt from Jada's Journals ~ sex, scandals and superstars (c) 2007 Jada Nichols. All Rights Reserved.
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Would you believe I made a whopping 10 grand yesterday?

That's more than I've made any year in my entire life so far . . . 'course I'm not very old, only twenty-six, but I've been working since I was hatched.

I come from one of those southwestern towns where "pest control" means keeping the armadillos from digging condo burrows under the already dead, brown lawn. My dad says I was weaned on beer and Mexican food. He should know. But that there's a whole 'nother story. Not near as much fun as this tale, I promise you.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Ten grand. Ten thousand luscious dollars in nicely used bills . . . which just might have traces of coke if someone rolled one up to snort with it . . . but it wasn't me. I don't do that shit. Burns your brain cells up and I ain't got all that many to spare.

I get high on the money, thank you very much. Ten delicious grand . . . I wanted to spread it out all over the bed and roll naked in it. I didn't. But I wanted to.

And I earned it doing something I love!

All I can say is that I've always had a real desire to take a whack at the piñata of life.

I think I hit it straight on!

Except I fell in love 'n I wasn't supposed to—

But I'm telling the story backwards.

Bad me.

Let's start over again—at the beginning.


******


I'd never been anywhere.

Well, that's not totally true. I'd been in cactus, two-stepped over the rattlesnakes, been trained from childhood to remember to put my shoes on before I got out of bed to go to the bathroom during the night so as not to step down barefoot on a trespassing scorpion, sun-burning my pale-cream skin to a blistered red oozing mass . . . damn desert.

But that doesn't count as "anywhere"— does it?

All that upbringing did was make me wanta get out. Outta Dodge. As soon as I could. No matter how I had to get there. And I wasn't very original—or very rich. Just packed my worldly belongings around my life savings, stuffed it into my old school back-pack and took the dog-gone bus, pun intended.

I still remember the smell of that trip. Dust. Sweat. Fear.

Diesel fuel. Long steaming days, fridged nights. Lights flashing into the exhausted passengers' eyes; '60s strobes for the po' folk still blinding travelers in the new millennium. The rattle and jerking of the rectangle metal box on worn, balding tires I was trapped in.

It would be much better when I got to Hollywood, I just knew it would.


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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11TH. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

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